


A Graceful Exit

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft To The Rescue, Templar!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has means and motive to leave Kinloch Hold, and needs only opportunity.  An unexpected visitor is more than willing to provide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Graceful Exit

**Author's Note:**

> Lots _of conversation here, folks. Strap in. But hey, think of it this way – you can either have talking or action. Either way,_ something _should be happening. And I will be the first to admit I am much more proficient with the former than the latter._  
>  _For Stef: Your feedback makes me a better writer. Your friendship makes me a better person. :)_
> 
> **Disclaimer:** _I don't own anything you recognize, and I'm sure Mycroft in particular would be rather indignant at the notion of being “owned” by anyone. *g*_

_“He who is overly attached to his family members experiences fear and sorrow, for the root of all grief is attachment. Thus one should discard attachment to be happy.”_

_~ Chanakya_

 

“Watson?”

John looked up from his parchment, quill poised, at the sound of Greagoir's voice. Despite his surprise, he quickly set down the quill and rose to his feet, bowing. “Knight-Commander.”

Greagoir acknowledged John's deference with a tilt of his head. “Good morning, John. I came by to tell you that I would like to see you in my office right away.”

John nodded, trying not to let his surprise and fear show, but Greagoir continued, “I came personally because I want to be discreet about this for now. But you are not in any kind of trouble, John – depending, of course, on your definition of trouble.”

John was puzzled, but merely nodded.

“I also came to let you know we will not be meeting alone. You have visitors. A pair, to be precise.”

“A – a what?” John's bewilderment increased tenfold. He never had visitors – none of the templars did. The only people who had guests were Irving, Greagoir, and occasionally those just a rank or two below.

“You heard me, John. You can finish what you were doing later – these are not people you'll want to keep waiting. Your schedule has been cleared for the rest of the day.”

“I beg your pardon?” John nearly gasped. In his mind, he watched his guard shifts, training sessions, and chapel services disappear before his eyes. He'd been taking the few minutes he had available after breakfast to write his monthly letter to his parents.

“These visitors are – rather influential, shall we say.” Greagoir's tone held some mild distaste. “One of them indicated that what he had to discuss with you was rather important, and possibly quite time-consuming. There were other arrangements to be made as well as a result of my meeting with him.”

“How –?”

“He is not the kind of man you say no to, John, nor the type to take that for an answer. Leave it at that. I expect you in my office shortly. Wear your best.”

“Yes, ser.”

Greagoir nodded and left. John, still reeling from the surreality of what had just happened, quickly put his letter aside and changed into his best clothes. Deciding not to put his armor on, he hurried to Greagoir's office.

The Knight-Commander, seated behind his desk, nodded to a man and a woman standing just off to the side. The man was tall and slim with thinning auburn hair, sharply dressed, holding a black umbrella in one hand and looking at John with the slightest of smiles. The woman, a striking and equally well-dressed brunette holding a sheaf of papers, wore a similar expression. John tried to smile back, his mind racing.

_Who is this? What does he want with me?_

“John,” said Greagoir, gesturing to the other man, “this is Mycroft Holmes and his assistant, Anthea. Mr. Holmes, Anthea, this is Ser John Watson.”

John's eyes widened.

“So I gathered,” the other man replied. He offered his hand. John took it for a brief shake, certain he looked half-cocked. Anthea gave only a slight nod, which John returned. “A pleasure, John.”

“Likewise,” John replied, slowly recovering from his shock.

“John, have a seat,” Greagoir said, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. John did so, noticing a tray on the desk containing a plain white teapot, a plate of biscuits – and only two cups.

“What's this about, ser?” he asked.

Greagoir folded his hands on his desk and looked straight at his knight. “Let's not beat about the bush. I will be frank with you. John H. Watson, as your commander it is my duty to inform you that, effective one week from today, you are being discharged from the Templar Order.”

“ _Discharged?_ ” John nearly shouted, before remembering where he was and quickly lowering his voice. “But – but I haven't done anything!” Well, that wasn't entirely true, but for now he would assume Greagoir was unaware of that.

“If you had, we would not be having this conversation,” Greagoir said pointedly. “Your exemplary record will reflect that fact. A letter of reference with the highest praise I can give shall go with you. Your discharge shall be honorable in every sense of the word.”

“Oh...thank you, Knight-Commander.” John was flooded with a momentary sense of relief before his bafflement returned. “But I still don't understand. Templars are rarely discharged, honorably or otherwise, especially at my age.”

“True, but 'rarely' is not the same as 'never', John. Even if that's because a fair bit of the honorable ones do not live long enough to see retirement age. And in all honesty, given your record, I always believed you would be one of them.” Something unreadable flickered across Greagoir's expression for an instant. “However, as it turns out, you are one of the lucky ones. There is no higher calling than that of service to the Maker – but more secular duties can certainly take precedence now and then.”

“I'm sorry?”

Greagoir indicated Mycroft. “This gentleman has explained to me you have a high-priority mission to fulfill, one that does not necessarily supersede your vows, but in fact upholds them. However, this mission would interfere with your commitment to the Order, so it would be in your best interests to be discharged from the Order so that you might best carry it out with no other obligations.”

“Mission?” Nothing had been clarified for John; he was more confused than ever. “I beg your pardon, ser, but I'm not sure what you're talking about.”

“Neither am I.” Greagoir's smile was brief and without much humor. “Mr. Holmes could not divulge more details than I have given you, as the mission is of great importance to our government and highly classified. He said that you would know what he was talking about, but you would not be able to further elaborate either, for those reasons. I cannot say I approve of being undermined in this fashion, but I will say I personally have been in similar situations, so I cannot condemn you, either.”

John sat back, questions flying through his mind. What mission? What task had he been assigned lately? It was secretive indeed, if he was supposed to know all about it and yet not be able to explain it. Why would there ever be anything he couldn't talk to Greagoir about? Greagoir was not always the easiest man to deal with, but he was fair and understanding – except sometimes when it came to dealing with templar-mage interactions. He had been known to harshly punish those who were caught secretly meeting and having affairs with...mages... _oh_.

John's face lit up with understanding. Peripherally, he saw the corners of Mycroft's mouth lift ever so slightly. Greagoir looked him in the eye.

“So you do know. Good. As should be evident, John, I have the greatest confidence in you. If you affirm that Mr. Holmes is telling the truth – and I'm not saying I don't believe you, ser –” he said to Mycroft, then turned back to John “– then I will accept your word.”

“He is, ser.” John nodded, speaking confidently. “I do have a mission of the utmost importance that would interfere with my duties here, and as much as I would like to tell you more, I'm afraid I can't. I would have spoken to you of it sooner, but I was unable to.”

“Very well. I will not question you further, then, and my blessing will go with you. I wish you would have come to me sooner, but I can understand being in your position. I'll finish the arrangements for your discharge this afternoon. Once your mission is complete, we would gladly welcome you back. However –” Greagoir looked at him with a softness resembling affection in his gaze “– something tells me you will never return to the Order.”

John hadn't known for sure until the words were spoken aloud. All he could do was nod a little. “I think you're right, ser.”

Greagoir chuckled lightly. “And to think, one time when I did not actually want to be right. Whatever your future endeavors, I know you will continue to serve the Maker and Andraste in your own way. We will be sorry to lose you and you will be greatly missed, but at the same time I feel you have earned your rest.”

“Thank you, ser, but I won't rest just yet. I can't. There's something very important I have to do first.”

The warmth in Greagoir's voice was slight, yet unmistakable. “You were always one to put your duty before yourself. One can ask no more of a servant of the Maker.”

John smiled. _Maybe this is one time when they coincide_.

Greagoir rose then, addressing the stranger. “You said you wished to speak with him privately, Mr. Holmes?”

“If you will indulge me.”

“Certainly. My office is at your disposal for the time being. I have other duties to attend to. We will speak again, John.”

“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.” John rose and bowed as Greagoir left the room.

Once the Knight-Commander was gone, Mycroft moved, quiet and deliberate, towards the desk and seated himself behind it, leaning his umbrella against the chair. John took his cue to sit down again as Mycroft reached for the teapot and finally looked at him. “Would you care for...?”

“Yes, please.” As the tea filled the cup, a rich, herbal scent wafted through the air. Oh, how John had missed that smell. Mycroft handed John the steaming cup before pouring his own and then offered the plate of biscuits. John accepted, took one, then held the plate out to Anthea. She took one and nodded her thanks, her demure expression unchanging.

“Truthfully, this is not how I would have preferred to meet you, John,” Mycroft remarked as he took back the plate. “However, a templar's sudden, unexplained disappearance from a tower full of mages tends to be noticed quickly, and I have no interest in attracting undue attention.”

Sudden, unexplained disappearance? John decided to pretend he hadn't heard that and leaned forward slightly.

“I suppose,” he said casually, swirling the tea in his cup to cool it, “all this is your doing?”

“More or less.” Mycroft selected a biscuit and took a small, proper bite from it.

John began to fidget in his seat. Clearly he was going to have to ask most of the questions. “You know, Sherlock never did explain exactly what it is you do. He said you were in government...?”

Mycroft scoffed. “That is accurate, in the same way it is accurate to say that water is in the sea. When my little brother is not _over_ stating, he is _under_ stating.”

John frowned. “So, you're saying...”

Mycroft set down his cup and looked John straight in the eye for the first time. He spoke as if correcting a petulant teenager. “I _am_ the Fereldan government, John.”

John's eyebrows went up. “Oh,” was all he could think of to say. He sat back, finally comprehending the meaning of his mission being “of great importance to the government.” Another few moments passed before he asked his next question.

“Even though your family isn't noble?”

“In this country, nobility and the government seldom have anything to do with each other, praise the Maker,” Mycroft said dryly as he sipped his tea. “And before you inquire – no, I had no influence on the outcome of this year's Landsmeet, nor did I particularly care to. That was all the Warden's and Arl Eamon's doing.” He smiled slightly. “Though I must say it was worth attending if only to see Ferelden's 'finest' looking to an elven mage to decide their future.”

“I'm sure it was,” John said, allowing just a note of sadness to slip into his voice. He remembered the tiny and frightened, but still kind and determined woman he'd met almost a year ago, and tried to picture her addressing a crowd of nobles in her flamboyant blue-and-gold robes. It must have been something to see.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but merely continued, “It was indeed something to see, even for a man of my experience. But I'm not here to discuss her. I am here for _you_ , John.”

John snorted. “Now who's understating? You certainly are. A bit...too easily, I think. I've only just learned that Sherlock is, in fact, very much alive and waiting on the outside, and here you show up offering me a legitimate way out of the Tower – no strings attached, it would seem.” He lifted his own eyebrows inquiringly.

“Natural suspicion is a most useful trait,” Mycroft replied. “Do hold on to that. You will need it in the coming months.”

“Which is why, I suppose, you're not trying to reassure me?” John shot back.

Mycroft gave him a hard look. “Do you think you are the only one in need of reassurance?”

That stopped John cold. He had to admit he had not considered that possibility.

“To that end, I have a question for you.” The elder Holmes brother set down his cup, folded his hands. “Do you find it difficult to reconcile your feelings for my brother with your feelings for the Maker?”

John frowned. _What did you expect?_ an inner voice chided him. _He's a Holmes; of_ course _he's going to ask intrusive personal questions._ He quietly reminded himself that Mycroft wasn't just a Holmes; he was Sherlock's brother, and only living family.

He shook his head. “No.”

Mycroft tilted his head, silently encouraging him to go on. He did.

“The Templars aren't like the Lay Brothers and Sisters, who vow to forsake all others for their love of the Maker. We aren't forbidden from marrying or having children; it's only discouraged for practical reasons. I've always believed – and so did my parents – that you can love another person and not love the Maker any less. We've always been told that the Maker loves all His children equally – why can't the same apply to love between His children? And for that matter, I can't believe that He would approve of His children being treated this way. He might have left us long ago, but would He really want to come back to _this?_ I know it's not like this in other countries – Rivain, for example. I don't know what went wrong with our system, but I know I don't want to be a part of it anymore. And I'm glad Sherlock isn't, either.”

It wasn't the most eloquent statement of his beliefs, but it seemed to satisfy Mycroft, who nodded and sipped his tea.

“I will always believe in the Maker,” John said fiercely, “but I don't know if I believe in the Chantry anymore. If there's anything that Sherlock's taught me, it's that there are many different ways that He works. I hope to experience as many as I can.”

Mycroft examined him carefully. “You believe the Maker sent Sherlock into your life?”

John shrugged. “I don't know for sure. But faith isn't about knowing. And sometimes faith is enough for me.”

In the quiet that followed, the only sounds were Anthea shuffling papers and making notes, and the occasional nibbling of biscuits. John wondered if Mycroft could truly understand his viewpoint, but perhaps that wasn't so important. Mycroft didn't need to understand, only to accept.

“You are a most interesting man, John Watson,” Mycroft said finally. His tone was firmly neutral.

John wasn't sure how to respond to that. “Uh...thank you,” he said after a moment. He took a long sip of tea, barely tasting it as he swallowed. He considered adding “So are you”, but figured that might not be wise.

“ _Are_ you in need of reassurance, John?” Mycroft asked, without a hint of genuine curiosity.

John straightened himself in his chair, held eye contact. “No.”

“And why not?” Mycroft's tone was almost teasing now, neither playful nor malicious. “One would never doubt the bravery of a templar of your standing, but bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?”

“Bravery has nothing to do with it,” John rejoined. “I don't need reassurance because I'm confident in my own feelings, as well as Sherlock's.”

He leaned forward slightly, speaking quickly. “And while we're on the subject – actually, I'm wondering the same thing about you. Why _you_ would need reassurance, as you seem to imply.”

“And why is that?”

“Because _I_ have a few questions for _you_.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Only a few? Ask, then.”

John steadied himself, set his cup down, and folded his hands on the desk. “Given that you have just secured my honorable discharge from an order to which I swore a lifetime commitment, and from which discharges of any kind are rarer than ironbark, am I to understand nothing is impossible for you?”

Mycroft shrugged, unable to keep a trace of smugness from his voice or face. “You may try.”

“Then if that's so...” John paused only a moment, the question he'd been pondering for months finally ready to be asked. “Why did you let Sherlock languish in the Tower for thirty years? You must have known he hated it here.”

For a few moments, he was able to savor the rare pleasure of seeing Mycroft Holmes completely speechless.

All too soon, the occasion passed and Mycroft regained himself.

“You are aware,” he said slowly, “of the difficulties currently straining my relationship with my brother?”

“Yes,” John said, almost venomously, “and don't think I'm not sympathetic. But no matter how much trouble my sister's been in, how often we've argued, how many times I've wished she made better choices – if she were ever in a place like this, I'd do everything in my power to help her out. She knows she can count on me for that, and hopefully vice versa.”

The gold Andrastian pendant he wore had never felt so heavy around his neck, clicking against his other most valuable possession. Mycroft did not respond for a few moments.

“How very fortunate you are.” It was said without emotion.

John shrugged. “I suppose so.” Had he really taken that for granted? Had he never truly appreciated the unspoken agreement between him and Harry that no matter what, they would always take care of each other, and help each other out of serious trouble? The thought disturbed him.

His own musings were soon interrupted by Mycroft, whose posture mirrored his, down to the teacup he was now cradling in both hands. When the older man spoke again, his tone had softened just slightly, as if it had been sanded around the edges.

“You must understand, John, I was a child of merely fourteen when my brother was taken away. We'd wondered before then – magic was strong in our late father's line, though he had none. Still, our parents felt the odds were in their favor, and went ahead with their plans for two children. Sherlock and I were scrutinized almost from the moment we were born. When the typical ages of manifestation came and went for me, our parents relaxed. But three days after my brother's seventh birthday, our mother and I – our father had died four years previously – saw, quite literally, the first spark of his powers. From that moment we knew we wouldn't be able to keep him.”

“Did you notify the templars?”

“Yes. They arrived three days later. We used that time to pack my brother's things.”

John tried his best not to get angry at Mycroft's cool, clinical tone – the Holmeses had reacted far more favorably than many other families whose children he had had to collect – but he still couldn't believe someone would speak so callously about their child, their sibling being taken away by strangers and never seen again.

“It was thirty years ago, John,” Mycroft said as if in answer. “There was little point to becoming emotional about it then and there is even less now. We did not know then what I do now about what went on at the Tower. We knew Sherlock would be educated, and learn to harness and develop his abilities – something neither of us was capable of teaching him. It was for the best.”

John could barely contain his growing fury in his answer. “Maybe so, but you said yourself you know now what actually goes on here. Why didn't you do something then?”

“What makes you think I did not?”

John's retort died on his lips.

“To put it simply: he refused my help.” Mycroft took a longer sip than usual; John sat startled. The government official set down his cup, but kept his fingers hooked around the handle.

“I did know how he felt, John. Even if it were not for what goes on here, I still would have known. It is possible for mages to leave the tower, after a time – to research, to fight, to heal – but they always come back. My brother could no more tolerate being kept on a leash than he could being caged. Even only having been physically present for the first seven years of his life, I knew that. He was forever coming home long after he was supposed to, exploring all the grounds and village he could, always finding ways to outwit his caretakers and slip from their grasp like a fresh trout. Even at his age he talked endlessly of visiting faraway lands, of climbing mountains and exploring caves, of traveling the high seas as a pirate.”

“A pirate?” John blinked. “Really?”

Mycroft shrugged, then continued, “Even well before the time he was to be Harrowed, I had attained a high enough position from which I could help him. I offered as soon as I was able. He refused. Thankfully our mother was long gone by that point, or I would have been obliged to tell her and attempt to explain his motives. That is for him to do, not me.” John knew Mycroft wasn't speaking only of Mummy Holmes with that last remark. “But I continued to offer, once per year, until the year he turned twenty-one.”

“The year of his Harrowing,” John said.

Mycroft nodded. “Also, the year that he did not respond in any way to my offer. All my other offers had met with immediate refusal.”

“And his not answering meant...?”

“He would accept it, but strictly on his own terms. I had an idea of what he might have in mind, and I was right.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “I am sure you are aware that once a mage is Harrowed, their phylactery is removed from the Tower and transported to a storage facility in Denerim. That was our one chance, and we took it. Sherlock's phylactery never made it to cold storage.”

“Sounds like you had everything planned out.”

“You don't earn my position by leaving anything to chance, John.”

“Whose idea was the necklace?”

“His.” Mycroft gazed into space for a moment. “I did not question it at the time, only had it fashioned. Not that I would have received an answer had I asked. No further instructions followed, and fifteen years passed without incident. Still, I was curious. If he had wanted his phylactery destroyed, he would have asked me to do it. I know you might think he would want to do it himself – symbolic and what have you –” the disdain in Mycroft's tone was clear “– but he is not troubled by that sort of sentiment. Therefore, he was planning to request it at a later date. What for? I knew if he were to try to escape, he would want to ensure _no one_ would follow him.

“And then I learned of Miss Molly Hooper.”

Mycroft nodded at the recognition he saw in John's face. “Yes, even you could see what was – or more accurately, was _not_ between them. Her unrequited affection aside, he clearly had no ulterior interest in her, not even as a pawn. Why, then, would he go to the trouble of befriending her? Even if she were trusted with his phylactery, it would be useless to her, except as a memento.” Again the derision crept into his voice.

“The answer became clear when, not long afterwards, I learned something most interesting.” He paused, clearly enjoying the suspense. John kept a blandly even expression, perfected over endless rounds of Wicked Grace with Greg in the guard barracks.

“My operatives informed me that he had been frequently seen in the company of a templar – not just in casual hallway conversation, but in secret after-hours visits as well.” At John's look of alarm, Mycroft held up a hand. “Relax, John. They are my agents, not the Chantry's. Your infractions were not theirs to report.”

John relaxed – somewhat – as Mycroft went on, “I considered trying to speak with you myself, even offering you money for...information on him.”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _Right, money, because money would do me_ so _much good in here_.

“However, it soon became evident that you are not a man who can be bought.” If that was a compliment, it wasn't delivered as such. “And at any rate, I did not get the chance.” Was that a hint of regret? “Not long after I obtained this information, I heard from Sherlock at last. He requested, in oblique terms, to have his phylactery sent to him. That, I had no problem with – I never had any intention of keeping it. Some months after his escape, I learned – not to my surprise – he had not taken it with him when he fled the Tower. Instead, with the assistance of Miss Hooper, he had gifted it to _you_.”

He gave John a meaningful look; John wasn't sure how to respond, if at all. Smile? Raise his eyebrows? Smirk? He opted not to do anything, and Mycroft continued, seemingly unperturbed.

“So, now that I have the opportunity, I will ask you the one question that came to mind as soon as I learned of your existence and connection to Sherlock.” Mycroft set down his cup again and steepled his hands, scrutinizing gaze locked firmly on the templar seated across from him. “Why do you care so deeply for my brother, John?”

John did not hesitate. “He helps me see the world – and the people in it – in a way I'd forgotten how. He makes me question things I had always accepted as true, and as a result he helps me learn more about the world around me. He could use his Maker-given gifts to hurt others, but he doesn't, and he never will. He cares very little for anyone, but he willingly spent time with me. When we met, he saw someone who was hurting, and alone, and whether he knew it or not, he comforted me in his own way. He helped me break a bondage I hadn't even realized I was bound to; for that alone I will forever be grateful. He sees me for who I am, not what I am.”

He paused to catch his breath before continuing. “Most of all...right now he's alone in a world of people that would sooner kill or imprison him – or worse, take away his gifts – for the crime of simply being who he is, as the Maker made him, and he needs someone to look out for him. And –” he pulled the necklace from under his shirt, holding the vial out to catch the light “– he chose me for that honor.”

Mycroft studied him for a few moments. “Do you take any pride in the fact that my brother needs such a guardian?”

John sighed. “I don't like that it's a necessity, any more than I like the fact that the female mages – and some of the males – in this tower have learned to always travel in pairs. But as long as it is a needed duty, I am more than willing – and honored – to fulfill it.”

There was a pregnant pause; even Anthea's papers were quiet. It was finally broken by Mycroft.

“I would not have expected less, seeing your record.” His response was perhaps more tight-lipped, more suppressed than his manner before.

John cocked his head and said nothing.

“There is one thing I would like to make unmistakably clear, John,” Mycroft said. At John's nod, he went on, “Whatever issues Sherlock and I have and had, I have never wished for harm to come to him. I have only hoped that he would not be so stubborn as to martyr himself for his pride. It would appear that he has not. And for that...I thank you.”

John tried not to look shocked at the flickers of gratitude that crossed Mycroft's expression then. In an instant, Mycroft had returned to business as usual. “However, there is little else I can do for you.” His gaze fell briefly to the necklace resting around John's neck. “The rest of the duty is yours now.”

“And – once I find him –” John paused, trying to keep his emotions in check “– where will we go? What will we do?”

Mycroft spread his hands, neutral expression never wavering. “That will be up to you. He is an apostate; you will be a discharged templar. You won't have many options. But you will be free men – one more so than the other, perhaps – and you will be together.”

He leaned towards the soon-to-be former templar. “And isn't that what you truly want, John?”

John nodded, hearing what Mycroft wasn't saying. If Mycroft, or anyone else, were to dictate their next steps, they'd be no better off than before. Mycroft had opened the gate; what John did once he was on the other side was his choice.

“If I may offer a suggestion or two –”

John gave a cursory nod, knowing Mycroft would offer his opinion whether it was wanted or not. That was a Holmes trait.

“Your returning to the Templar Order obviously isn't a viable option – as soon as your brothers learned of mine, they would cut him down like ripe wheat. The Grey Wardens in Amaranthine would offer protection, but the costs of joining their order might be too high for you to pay.”

“How so?”

“Putting it bluntly, becoming a Warden is a swift death sentence, John. Not an immediate one, if you're lucky, but you don't strike me as the gambling type.”

“Oh.” John frowned. “So far all you're telling me is what we should _not_ do.”

“Once you have ruled out what cannot be done, what remains is what can be done.” Mycroft sipped his tea. “My only recommendation in that regard is to secure a place for yourselves to stay; not year-round, necessarily, but a place you can always return to. There are many inexpensive apartments in Denerim, for example. Even a temporary home is better than none.”

John nodded. “Understood. I'll keep that in mind.”

“To that end, he will likely wish to retrieve his remaining possessions that were delivered to me following his 'death'. They are at our estate in Denerim. I may or may not be there when you arrive to collect them.”

Somehow, John had the feeling he wasn't talking about true uncertainty in that circumstance.

“My only directive is that when you leave, you should go to The Spoiled Princess near the docks and tell the innkeeper who you are. He will provide you with as many supplies as you need at reduced or no cost. I will see to it.” As if in answer, John heard a furious scratching of a quill from where Anthea stood.

“Thank you, Mycroft. I appreciate that.”

“It is the least I can do, John. You are already doing more than you know. I would, however, like to make one more request of you.”

John shrugged. “Sure.”

“I may not know my brother as well as I would like, John, but I do know this about him. He can recall and forget pieces of information at will, but there is one memory he will never forget – that of our mother watching him go, silent and still.”

He looked hard at John. “If you do nothing else for him...do not make him relive that moment.”

John nodded. “I understand. Thank you, Mycroft, so much. I – I can't tell you what –”

Mycroft held up a hand; John fell silent. “You do not need to express the significance to me, John. I already know, and far more deeply than you can perhaps understand. You are my brother's protector now. You have always fulfilled your duty to your highest capabilities. I trust you shall continue to do so.”

John tipped his head in acknowledgment, not missing the slight emphasis laid on the word “trust”. There was a brief period of silence, the two men eying each other one last time.

“Are we done?” John asked politely.

Mycroft just smiled again, a look that was beginning to grow just ever so slightly irritating. “You tell me.”

After a brief exchange of goodbyes, John wasted no time returning to his quarters.

There was a letter that needed serious rewriting.

 o~O~o

One week later, John was ready to leave the Circle Tower for the last time. There had been a brief ceremony, and well wishes all around. He'd bid farewell to the Knight-Commander and Captain, to all his brothers, to Irving and the senior enchanters, and, of course, to Molly and Finn.

“Good luck, John,” Molly had told him. “And – tell Sherlock I said hello.” With that, she'd impulsively reached out and hugged him, a bit awkwardly over his massive armor. He'd been surprised, but quickly hugged her back.

Finn had smiled, offering his hand to shake. “Best of luck, Ser Watson. You will write, won't you?”

John shook his hand, smiled back. “Of course – as long as you write, too. And who knows – perhaps even _you_ will venture out of here someday.”

Finn chuckled. “Maybe I will. There's so much to learn that you can't find in books. As long as it's not too dirty out there or anything. I'd hate to mess up my robes.”

“I wouldn't count on that, Finn. And by the way...you can call me John.”

There were other goodbyes John didn't make in person. He'd dashed off a letter to Greg, telling him he'd write again once he was more settled. He smiled, thinking of how Greg would itch to write him back. Perhaps they'd meet by chance on the road; that would be better than any correspondence. He'd also written to his parents and, after some hesitation, to his sister as well. Despite their estrangement, he didn't want the news of his discharge to come from their parents. Maybe someday they'd be able to repair their relationship – she was all he would have once their parents were gone – but that wasn't a priority for now.

He stood at the tower doors, alone save for the two guards beside them, with nothing but some essential items in his pack, his cloak, his newly refurbished Oathkeeper, and a decent set of chainmail he'd purchased from the quartermaster after turning in his old armor. He was sorry to part with it, but he knew it wasn't the gear that made the soldier – it was skill.

He looked back, just once, before nodding to the guards to open the doors, and walked outside a free man.

The day was warm and sunny, and the boat was waiting for him.

When he reached the other side of Lake Calenhad, he disembarked and started to walk to the inn. He stopped halfway there, then turned back for one last look at his home of nearly two decades. The tower's white stone gleamed in the morning light.

A wistful smile crossed his face. Then he turned away, reached for the chain around his neck, and pulled out the phylactery. At his touch, the vial's glow came to life.

He moved the vial eastward. With the barest of flickers, the glow brightened.

To John, it was as brilliant as the sun.

**Author's Note:**

>  _I'll always remember when I figured out how John would get out of the tower, because I was puzzling over it while writing an email to Stef (several months ago – hush :P), and literally when I was typing the sentence,_ “I'm still not sure how John will get out, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it”, _it hit me. Not the first time she has inspired me, directly or otherwise, but one of the most opportune. :)_  
>  _Oh, and Mycroft's mission to claim Sherlock's phylactery? Yeah, that'll likely be expanded on later. ;)_  
>  _Thanks as always to all my readers, including OtakuElf, azure_rosa, and the unsung anons. You're all greatly appreciated. :)_  
>  _Also, I feel some credit should go to Steve Perry, whose dulcet tones have been getting my creative juices flowing a lot these days (with and without Journey), regardless of the mood. (shrugs) What can I say – I love the '80s!_  
> 


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